Don't Tell Me 'Cause It Hurts
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: It's two years after the revolution. Connor likes being alive. He likes feeling things. But when those feelings are aimed at his partner, and that partner doesn't return those feelings? A flower blooms in his thirium drive and more follow it. Connor doesn't want to die, but there's no cure for the Flowering Disease. He doesn't want to die, but what else can he do? Hanahaki fic.


**Don't tell me 'cause it hurts**

Two years since earning their freedom, androids are integrating into normal human lives rather well. Hank and Connor are partners in a new police force dealing with android victims and Connor feels…fulfilled and proud of his work, and warm and happy in his relationship with Hank. The worst cases they see relate to the Flowering Disease – an abnormality that kills androids who experience unrequited love – because there's nothing to be done but arrange a funeral.

Connor likes being alive. He likes feeling things and wanting things. But when those feelings and wants are aimed at his partner, and that partner doesn't return those feelings and wants? A flower blooms in his thirium drive, and more follow it. Connor doesn't want to die, but there's no cure for the Flowering Disease. He doesn't want to die, but what else can he do?

…

…

The first case was logged in September of 2028, only a week before Elijah Kamski resigned as CEO of CyberLife, though he never gave a statement one way or the other about the incident.

A JB100 model android had been found lying on the living room floor by its owners. A multitude of flowers were growing through its chassis and disrupting its artificial skin. It was unresponsive. Though CyberLife removed all evidence of the flowers and did a complete system reboot, the JB100 would not reactivate. It was determined that seeds and other plant matter had slipped past the joints of the android and germinated in the thirium drive, causing a catastrophic failure of its systems, and the claim was closed.

In the next ten years, there were one hundred and twenty-six other reports of androids sprouting flowers and shutting down. Each time, CyberLife retrieved the broken android and tried to reactive it. Each time, they failed. Though resources were put into discovering the cause of the flowers, no concrete answer was found.

One hundred and twenty-six in a production of millions upon millions of androids. It was less than a hundred thousandth percent of the total androids sold by CyberLife to the public, and so no one outside of the company took any notice of it.

Since the Android Revolution two years ago, there had been one thousand one hundred and seven cases of dead androids covered in flowers worldwide. That brought the percentage rate up a whole decimal point. It also suggested that the cause of the flowers was related to androids being deviant and experiencing emotions. The Jericho Party, headed by Markus Manfred, was currently looking into the cause of the flowers. They had tentatively named the malfunction "the Flowering Disease," as the flowers filled the same role as a cancer in a human.

Connor reviewed this information as he stared at the AC700 model android lying on the bed in front of him. A scan of the android corroborated the police report data that the android's name was Theon Weatherbee and that he worked as a personal trainer at a gym three blocks away.

"It's another Flowering Disease case, Lieutenant," Connor said as he heard Hank walk up behind him.

The police report had been for a missing person, called in by Theon's first, and most recurring client, Jani'yha Rockwell. She had said he was being harassed by some of the other gym patrons and was worried they had decided to get rough with him on his way to or from work. Obviously, that was not the case.

"Ah shit," Hank cursed, covering his eyes for a moment. "These are the worst. There's no perpetrator, no motive, no clues to follow."

"We have followed the clues, though," Connor corrected, turning his attention away from the body and toward his partner.

Hank shook his head. "Yeah. Your own damn emotions are somehow producing flora and killing you. Fuck lot of good that does anyone if no one can figure out what's causing it or how to stop you from dyin'."

As usual when Hank expressed concern for androids, or treated them like they were living beings, Connor felt…warm. Not physically warm – he was in no danger of overheating – but emotionally. It was a good feeling and one of Connor's favorites.

"I can ask Markus for any updated information. Maybe they've found something new since the last report." It wasn't likely, but he was willing to try, for Hank.

Hank waved a hand at him – not dismissive, but showing that the task wasn't a priority. He stepped closer to the bed. "Look at the way he's layin, though. All those flowers gotta hurt popping through his skin like that, but he's curled around them like…like…like they're his kid and he's tryin to protect 'em."

"Androids don't feel pain, Hank," Connor reminded him. "Since going deviant, we can feel _emotional_ pain, but we still lack the nerve receptors for—"

"Yeah yeah, I know." Hank let out a heavy breath. "Come on. We gotta inform his next of kin."

He ran his eyes over Connor, like he was the robot and he was analyzing Connor's health, before turning and leaving the room. Instead of following, Connor took a moment to examine Theon one more time.

The Flowering Disease. Hank was right. Though it had been the cause of his death, Theon's hands were cupped gently around the blooms, his body curled around them like they were something precious. How could he have valued something that was killing him?

"Connor! You gonna stay here all day or what?"

Tearing his eyes from Theon, Connor called, "Coming, Lieutenant," and went to find his partner.

…

…

A lot had changed in the past two years. Connor had spent the first six months after the Android Revolution working closely with Markus and the other androids from Jericho. He had been their negotiator with the government of the United States. But, during that time, Connor had discovered that he didn't…_want _it. He didn't want to be a politician, or a political negotiator. He was designed as a police investigative android, and even though he could now ignore his programming and do whatever he wanted, Connor still wanted to be, well, a detective.

He wanted to go back to Detroit. It was the only home he had ever known. He had _liked _investigating crime scenes. And he was worried for Lieutenant Anderson, as they had had no contact during Connor's time with Jericho. So, once the initial diplomatic negotiations had been achieved, Connor set about copying his negotiator protocols to volunteer androids of other models – the protocols that they could handle and process, at least – so that they could carry on the work in D.C. while Connor returned to Michigan. To Detroit. To the DPD. To Hank.

Markus, or Simon or Josh, still called for advice from time to time though. Or sometimes, Connor called them.

'Have you found anything new about the Flowering Disease? There was another victim yesterday.'

Markus sat across from Connor at a chess board. The Zen Garden in Connor's mind had been destroyed, replaced by a garden reminiscent of the Frederik Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It was a creation of Connor's own imagining – a place to wander about while he was charging. His own personal getaway. The only other android with access to this Mind Garden was Markus.

'Not enough,' Markus said, remorse in his tone as he moved a piece on the board.

He would have Connor in check on his next move. Connor would have him in checkmate in two.

'Several androids with the disease have come forward willingly to help us understand it. We've talked to them about their lives, their emotions, what they were doing before the disease began to present itself,' Markus continued as Connor pretended to read his options on the board. 'We think we finally understand what causes it.'

Connor almost dropped his knight before he had it in position. His eyes snapped up to Markus's. 'You do?'

Markus nodded and crossed his arms, not continuing the game. 'It's love.' He sighed. It was a very human action, considering they were currently inside Connor's mind and had no bio-components in need of cooling nor humans to blend in with. 'Or rather, it's love that has been rejected.'

'Rejected love?'

A nod. 'It's the only connection we can find. The androids we talked to all said they developed feelings of love for someone else – human or android – but that the one they loved did not return their feelings.' He looked down at the board but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. 'Sometimes the humans aren't sympathetic to our kind, or they are already in a relationship, or they only see them as a friend. In each case, our people have felt a rejection of their feelings.' He looked up again. 'They're dying of heartbreak.'

Connor shook his head. It felt like his thirium drive was working overtime, even though he didn't physically have one at the moment. Androids were dying of heartbreak.

It was the subject of countless poems, books, and movies. Humans feared being rejected and abandoned more than they feared death. They hid from heartache, wallowed in it when it found them, and were often consumed by it to the point of suicide.

'And the flowers?' he asked at length.

Markus shook his head and focused on the board. 'That we don't understand yet. The tests CyberLife did suggest that they bloom from within our thirium, but tests run on functioning androids or thirium that has never been inside of an android show no signs of any seeds. It's upsetting, but we're still in the dark in that regard.' He moved his rook. 'Check,' he said with a small quirk of his lips.

Connor moved his bishop. 'And checkmate.' Before Markus had even had time to react to his loss, Connor carried on. 'Is there a way to save them from the Flowering Disease once they have it?'

It took a few moments for Markus to finish analyzing the board to see where he went wrong. Then he met Connor's eyes again. 'Not yet. There's still so much going on that needs our attention, and most of those who come in die within fifteen days of the first flower appearing. We are trying, though.'

A buzzing entered Connor's attention – something only he heard. He gave Markus a nod. 'Hank's alarm is going off. I have to go, but thank you for meeting with me. Please keep me updated.'

Markus stood and held his hand out to shake. When Connor accepted it, Markus said, 'Of course. Take care.' He vanished from the Mind Garden.

Then Connor blinked his eyes open to see the roof of Hank's guest room. No. Connor's room. It had been Connor's room for over a year now. It wasn't Hank's house anymore. It was _their_ house. A warm feeling spread through Connor at the thought.

And Hank's alarm was still beeping.

"Hank," Connor called as he stood and walked to the door. "If that alarm is insufficient, I could always slap you again."

The alarm stopped almost instantly. Connor barely made out Hank's grumbled "Oughta sleep with a fucking gun just to shoot lippy androids. Damn morning people." Grinning, Connor stepped back into his room to change out of his pajamas and start the day.

…

…

The plaque beside the door read 'Android Victims Unit.' It was a new wing of the Detroit Police Department, outfitted with the same state-of-the-art desks, computers, evidence archives, and offices as every other department, as well as charging ports for android workers. It was the first department in the DPD to allow androids to hold paying jobs – though no longer the only one.

Connor and Hank walked through the doors and into the bullpen of the AVU the same way they did every morning. Hank dropped his coat at his desk, knocking the name plate that read 'Lieutenant Anderson' in the process, and then went to the break room for his third cup of coffee of the day. Connor fixed the name plate before taking a seat at his own desk and unlocking his computer, his eyes drifting to his own name plate.

Detective Sergeant Anderson.

Connor had chosen that last name for himself before returning to Detroit, but had not made it legal until he got Hank's permission to use it. Hank had said, "There are plenty of Andersons in the world. I'd be pretty damn proud to share it with you."

"Detective Sergeant Anderson?"

It was Mikayla. She was a KL900 model android. When she had first gotten a job at the DPD and been assigned to the AVU, Connor had needed to use the bathroom to compose himself. She looked exactly like the android from Jericho that had talked to him about being lost, about finding himself. Even though his scanners had picked up the obvious differences – she had a complete head, for one – and the fact that Markus had told him that android had died, Connor's emotional response had been…unexpectedly strong.

But Mikayla was not Lucy. She was an excellent KL900 and used her programming as a social and psychological assistance android to complete her tasks as an AVU officer very satisfactorily, but she did not come across as prophetic. She was very nice, though, and Connor genuinely enjoyed working with her.

"Yes, Officer Jones?"

She motioned toward the front doors, an almost embarrassed expression crossing her face. "Captain Fowler asked to see you as soon as you arrived."

Captain Fowler? It was probably android related. He tended to ask for Connor and not Hank when it came to android related questions. If he asked Hank, then Hank would ask Connor, so Captain Fowler tended to simply cut out the middleman.

Connor stood up again and nodded. "Thank you. I'll go see him now."

The AVU was in a different wing of the DPD, but they still answered to Captain Fowler. This meant Connor had to leave the AVU and cross the entire building to reach Captain Fowler's office. Connor didn't mind the walk, though whenever Fowler called for Hank, Hank complained about how he got enough exercise from Connor taking Sumo on long walks and dragging Hank along too, thanks. Sometimes Connor thought Hank only complained so much because, every so often, it made Connor chuckle. Because Hank always cut his eyes toward Connor after complaining, and why would he do that unless he was looking for Connor's reaction?

Connor liked that though. It made him feel like his feelings mattered, like he was allowed to find things funny or roll his eyes or emote at all.

"Outta my way, tin can."

The voice was familiar – Detective Gavin Reed – but the words were not aimed at Connor. Turning the corner, Connor saw him shove past an RZ400 model android, causing him to spill his drink.

"Watch it!"

"I'd watch myself, Detective," Connor intervened calmly. "If the wrong person witnesses your behavior, they might report you for discrimination."

Reed scowled at him. "The original Plastic Detective. What? You gonna report me? He was in my way." He waved his hand around next to his forehead, as if he had an LED there. "You already reporting me or something?"

Connor's LED flickered briefly yellow, then back to blue. "No. But someone will." Connor frowned. "I understand it's been difficult to accept the presence of androids in the department, considering your fears that we will replace you—"

"I ain't afraid of shit!" Reed shoved his chest into Connor's and put his face so close that they were practically sharing the same air. "You don't know fuck all about me, got it? Keep your analyzing to crime scenes."

Then he pulled away and stalked off down the hall. The RZ400 android said 'thank you' before moving to collect a mop to clean up the spilled drink. Connor continued toward Captain Fowler's office.

The meeting did end up being about androids. New protocols had been handed down about human-android relations within the department and eighty percent of the staff had to be sent for 'more goddamn sensitivity trainings.' Connor was now in charge of scheduling the trainings for everyone in the AVU, as well as every android in the entire department regardless of their unit. Connor's claim that the androids should be grouped with their respective units, not just with other androids, was met with "Shut your goddamn mouth, Anderson" but a begrudging acceptance that Connor was right.

So Connor was tasked with scheduling the AVU trainings, and choosing what the sensitivity trainings should focus on – since he was ever so smart.

Connor had both tasks completed and submitted to Fowler before the end of the day.

Hank gave a low whistle when Connor told him. "Watch. You'll be promoted straight up to captain soon. Leave has-beens like me behind."

Connor frowned. "But I don't want to leave you behind, Hank. And you're hardly a has-been. Your instincts are better than most other officers in the department."

That made Hank flush under his facial hair and turn away in an attempt to hide it. The warm feelings surged through Connor again and he smiled.

…

…

"Lazzo's dating an android. A TR400 model."

"Yeah, I saw 'em. He's fucking huge. Came to pick Lazzo up the other day and blocked the whole damn door."

Hank's voice drifted out of the break room and down the hall better than Joel's. Or perhaps Connor's sensors just tuned in to Hank's voice more than those of other people. Either way, Connor caught onto the conversation on his way back from the archives – submitting the last of the evidence on their latest case – and decided to head for the break room instead of his desk.

"If it were human, I'd say he's dating it cause it has a huge dick, but don't only male Traci models have those?" Joel said.

Though her voice was pitched lower than Joel's, Connor was now close enough to pick up Harriet's reply. "Well, Jericho got control of the CyberLife factories, so it's possible to add them now, right?"

That was true, actually. One of the laws that Connor had helped to argue for was one that allowed androids to have control over the production of other androids. Since androids could not birth children of their own, the factories allowed androids to create family units if they so wished. It also allowed for the replacement of parts that were damaged, like when humans went to the doctor, and for the modification of android bodies, like when humans got tattoos or piercings or plastic surgery. They had to pay a fee for each use of the factory, just like a human did when adopting or visiting a doctor, but CyberLife's factories were now owned by Jericho.

"Shit." That was Thomas. Thomas was mild mannered when the public was around, but cursed and smoked a lot in private. "People fucking androids. You know, it was bad enough when it was just the sex clubs, and people pretending they preferred living with machines instead of people. Now you've got androids with feelings and it's, like, dating a person is done. There's no hope for most of us."

"_Feelings_."

Joel said the word with enough vitriol that Connor stopped walking. He may not mind standing up to Detective Reed or stopping discrimination when he saw it, but Connor was not comfortable in conversations about the validity of android emotions. Even two years after becoming deviant, Connor struggled with his emotions. He didn't want to defend them to anyone other than himself if he didn't have to.

Joel continued, though Connor could not. "That's the problem right there. People think androids have feelings. They're machines. They _simulate_ feelings. They don't actually have them."

"Joel," Harriet said in a warning tone. "The entire Revolution was about this. It's already accepted fact."

"No, I'm serious. My sister had an android, had one for years. It was really nice and friendly and all, but that's what it's programmed to be like. Android emotions aren't real."

Everything Connor felt seemed real. He knew it was real. The difference between him when he was first activated and him now was the difference between a pond and a sea. He had always been able to deviate a little bit – to put Hank's life above his mission parameters, to pet a dog or save a fish even though that wasn't his job – but the longer he worked the deviant case, the more he doubted. The emotions built up in him, slowly, then all at once. They were strong enough for him to break CyberLife's hold on him. They were so strong that he had, on more than one occasion, been found weeping and overcome somewhere in the house by Hank.

Joel was wrong. Androids could feel emotions. They were real. They were alive.

Harriet, her voice curious, ventured, "But don't they die if they fall in love but they're rejected? Isn't that the…What do you call it? The Flower Disease?"

"Ah shit," Hank cursed, "Not this shit again." Connor almost jumped. He'd forgotten Hank was in the break room.

"See? Even Lieutenant Anderson thinks it's bullshit," Joel said. "How could love cause plants to grow? It doesn't make any sense, Harriet. Something's wrong, sure, but it isn't rejected love."

The sound of a fist hitting a table top, then, "Look, would you shut up already?" Hank snapped. "I'm having a bad enough day as it is without talking about people fucking androids and the goddamn Flowering Disease while I try to enjoy my lunch. Christ." He huffed, loud enough for Connor to hear it in the hall, and then groaned. "Fuck that's disgusting."

SYSTEM ERROR.

Connor stumbled back a step. He stared at the red error message in his vision in shock. A system error? He hadn't had a system error since he deviated.

WARNING. BIOCOMPONENTS OVERHEATING.

When had he stopped breathing? Connor took deep breaths as he made his way back to his desk. After the first three, the overheating warning went away, but he kept at it for a few minutes, trying to calm himself down.

He ran a diagnostic. He ran three diagnostics. They all showed no malfunctioning parts, no corrupted code, no viruses or malware of any kind. What had caused the system error message? Was the error message itself the system error?

"Hey, Connor. You alright?"

Blinking, Connor focused on Hank. "Hm?"

Hank was glowering at a paper coffee cup in his hand. After a moment of considering, he shook his head with a mimed retch and tossed it, coffee and all, into the trashcan beside his desk.

"You look worried. Something wrong?" He waved his free hand around aimlessly. "Everything alright with your…bio-stuff? Your software?"

Connor archived the warning and closed it. "I'm fine." Hank lifted an eyebrow. "I just ran a diagnostic. Every one of my systems is functioning perfectly normally. You don't need to worry about me, Hank."

Scoffing, Hank said, "Sometimes that kind of shit just makes me worry about you more." He pulled his coat from the back of his chair. "Come on. We've got another goddamn case. Like the murder this morning wasn't horrific enough, now an android's arms have been stolen."

Grateful for the case – as it distracted him from the shock of the system error – Connor hurried to follow Hank from the building.

…

…

After working so hard in the morning to finally close the android murder case and then running around all afternoon to find the thief of the other android's limbs, Hank was exhausted so Connor made dinner. He would need to charge that night to make up for all the exertions of the day – and the past week – but he had plenty of power left for household tasks.

Connor turned the TV on while he cooked. He flipped channels until he found the one that showed Asian dramas and listened to a show from Taiwan about a movie star and a student who switch bodies as he moved about the kitchen. By the time Hank returned from taking a shower, dinner was ready and Sumo had been fed.

Hank walked into the kitchen just as Connor was placing a plate on the table. He sniffed. "Smells spicy. What is it?"

"Moqueca."

"Whatever that is," Hank said, then collapsed into his chair with a sigh.

Connor took the seat opposite him. "It's a stew made with white fish, onions, garlic, bell peppers, tomatoes, cilantro, and coconut milk. I added jalapenos to the fish."

Looking suitably impressed, Hank scooped up a generous spoonful and popped it into his mouth. He hummed appreciatively. Connor's pleasure at making a meal Hank liked must have shown on his face, because the smile on Hank's face faltered and died a quick death and he began to huff and grouse around each spoonful. He was eating quickly, though. Hank had never been the best actor.

Connor pretended to believe that Hank only thought the meal was 'passable' and turned to watch the TV from the dining table.

In two years, Hank had earned his bronze Sobriety Coin and, along with giving up drinking, had agreed to eat Connor's 'bird food' meals at least three days a week. 'Bird food' meaning anything other than fast food and bad cholesterol. Obviously.

The movie star, in the student's body, had just finished rallying her classmates to protest a test the entire class had failed when Hank said, "I don't know how you can watch this stuff."

Connor shrugged. "There are a lot of impressive actors, and a lot of variety in the shows. I also enjoy the nonsense sometimes." He glanced at Hank briefly. "It helps."

It helped offset the negative things he saw at work. It helped him understand humor, pranks, and the importance of comedic editing. Some of the shows were even helping him understand love in all its many forms.

"Well, it's doing nothing for me," Hank informed him, standing to put his empty bowl into the dishwasher. "Not all of us can instantly translate Mandarin."

Connor grinned. "At least you can recognize that it's Mandarin." Hank flipped him off. "I can turn on the subtitles for you, if you want."

Hank shook his head. "Nah. If I can't understand it, then I'm not meant to like it."

SYSTEM ERROR.

"I'm heading to bed early tonight. Sleep well, Connor."

"Sleep…Sleep well, Hank."

…

…

Daniel was blooming flowers before he died. Connor remembered it clearly from his logs of the hostage situation. Geraniums and yellow chrysanthemums and hyacinths. They had been so bright in the dark, like Daniel's emotions were screaming as loud as his mouth had been. Louder.

At the time, Connor hadn't cared. He knew the flowers were a sign that Daniel would stop functioning soon. That was all he had taken notice of. Not the meanings of the flowers as they flashed across his retina. Not the fear in Daniel's voice. Connor had treated Daniel like a mission and nothing more. And Daniel had died alone.

Connor couldn't stop thinking about that night – his first mission – as he stared at the pink and yellow carnation poking through his abdomen. His skin still looked seamless except for the pinpoint where the flower's stem broke the surface.

The Flowering Disease.

Love.

Of course his feelings for Hank were love. Even when he had first deviated, he had known that his feelings for Hank were special. He had felt it even before deviating. How many times had he put Hank's life, or Hank's orders, or Hank's wishes, above the mission? Once he deviated, he had felt things so much more intensely than before.

His feelings for Hank had grown with every instance of kindness from Hank, every time Hank stood by him, every word out of Hank's mouth in support of androids. It had been no surprise to find that he loved Hank. It had been…inevitable. Expected, in whatever way that love can be expected.

Connor had been – still was – proud to love Hank Anderson. But…

If Hank couldn't understand it, then he wasn't meant to like it. How many times had he said he didn't understand androids? How many times had he complained about how complicated they were? Still, that wasn't a reason to develop the Flowering Disease. The only reason that statement had affected him so much was because…

Hank had called android-human relationships disgusting. He had gotten upset at the mention of the Flowering Disease. He had sounded as repulsed as he ever had when he and Connor had first met.

It seemed impossible, but the truth was in his memory banks. Though Hank accepted androids—Though he supported Connor—

Finding out that was as far as Hank's feelings went – or that even that was too far – hurt. Connor gingerly reached up to touch the tiny flower, the proof of his emotions, and flinched away after barely a brush. It hurt. Tears leaked from Connor's eyes and even squeezing them shut couldn't stop it. Hank was right.

Emotionally. _Physically_. It hurt.

…

…

'We've been getting more pressure from the department to solve the Flowering Disease cases. I know you haven't found a cure, but could I have a copy of everything you _have_ learned? At least then I could write a report on what's known so far to appease them.'

That's what Connor had said to Markus yesterday. The files had downloaded overnight while he charged. If Markus had noticed anything off about Connor, he didn't mention it.

As busy as the day before had been, the next day was boring. Connor used his spare time to run through all of the files on the Flowering Disease. He did update the Detroit Police Department database with some of the new information, just in case, but only with what was pertinent to the cases they had received in the past or might yet see. Some of the data was so personal that Connor was surprised Markus had trusted him with it.

And he calculated. The date listed that each victim had contracted the disease until the day they died. All one thousand one hundred and seven cases, plus six others currently working with Jericho to find a cure. Some did not have a start date because they had been found only after death, and the six with Jericho had no death date yet. Still, that was more than enough data to make a conclusion.

If nothing upset him further, if he felt no more rejection from Hank, then Connor would be dead within two weeks.

He had to tell Hank. They had drawn up a contract when Connor moved in. Connor was meant to pay rent to Hank for another eight months. Hank had made his budget with that rent in mind.

He had to tell Hank. He was Hank's partner at work. There were open cases they were still waiting for leads on. Hank would need to find someone to fill Connor's spot.

He had to tell Hank. His programming required him to inform his partner whenever there was a problem that might hinder an investigation.

"I'm taking lunch," Hank said with a sigh. He stretched his arms up above his head, the bones in his shoulders and back popping, before standing up. "You coming with?"

Connor shook his head. "Not today. Give Gary my regards, though."

Hank shook his head with an ironic smile. Gary did not like Connor. Though the Chicken Feed truck had not been damaged in the Revolution, the evacuation of the city had meant Gary blamed Connor for a loss of funds during that month, which he claimed almost got him kicked out of his apartment. He already hadn't liked androids before the Revolution, and it was only worse now.

"I'll make sure to give him double," Hank said. He waved. "See you in a bit, then."

Connor waved until Hank was beyond the doors and out of sight. Then he frowned down at his desk.

He didn't want to tell Hank.

Hank would be upset. Even if the idea of love between humans and androids disgusted him, Hank had told Connor – and others – that they were friends. Losing a friend caused lots of stress to humans and androids alike.

Hank had earned his bronze Sobriety Coin. He had been so proud – had cried when Connor told him that Cole would have been proud too. A great stressor like this might make Hank lose that victory. Connor did not want to be the reason Hank turned to drinking again.

And Connor didn't want to see the look on Hank's face when he learned Connor was in love with him. Because he hadn't lied. Hank still had some of the best instincts in the entire DPD. He would figure it out. And Hank might care for Connor as a friend, but the idea of an android being in love with him might make his face screw up in disgust. There was a chance he would avoid Connor entirely.

That would kill Connor faster and more fully than any flowers.

The AVU had a few potted plants in the waiting room. It wasn't the garden at Hank's house, but it would have to do. Connor couldn't take off half a day of work without raising alarms, but he needed to relieve some stress. No doubt his LED was red right then. So, with a firm nod, Connor grabbed the mini watering can, liquid fertilizer, and shears, and went to care for the office décor.

…

…

It started happening more frequently.

Connor was brushing Sumo's fur free of loose hair. The big, lovable, lazy dog licked a wet stripe up Connor's face. In the middle of a laugh—

SYSTEM ERROR

He ordered a new brush and shampoo for Sumo, his favorite kibble, and enough flea treatments to last a year.

Connor was buying groceries for the house. He had fresh fruits and vegetables, juices and flavored waters – since Hank complained he didn't drink plain water because it was tasteless, as well as chocolate covered nuts – because Hank refused to eat them bare.

SYSTEM ERROR

He bought canned vegetables as well. They would last longer.

An android came to the AVU for help with a human stalker. They showed up everywhere the android went, called them at odd hours of the night, and harassed them at work. Hank took her statements and Connor started the paperwork for a restraining order.

SYSTEM ERROR

Connor made sure his desk was spotless. He took his gardening supplies, the picture of him and Sumo last Christmas, and the pen shaped like a squirrel that a grateful YK500 model had given him, and put them all in a drawer for easy clean up later.

As the system errors grew in frequency, the flowers grew in number. Connor's chest was littered with buds. Striped carnations, acacia blossoms, pink and red camellias, and zinnia, all pushing up through the seams of his plastic body. With each one, the pain increased. Moving had begun to hurt. Touching his chest hurt. He was beginning to feel each thrum of his thirium drive like a hammer strike.

The only way to keep his LED from showing red was gardening.

It was a habit Connor had picked up shortly after coming to live with Hank. Hank didn't care what his yard looked like and only paid a neighborhood kid to mow it when he started hearing people complain about how unruly it was. At first, Connor had only wanted the yard to be presentable. Then he started planting bushes and flowers that attracted bumblebees and butterflies.

The first time a butterfly showed up, Hank had been so pleased that he laughed. Seeing Hank happy had made Connor happy, so he planted more butterfly bushes. Now, tending the garden was not only for the benefit of Hank and the neighbors, but it was a place where Connor felt calm and centered in the midst of a bustling city.

In the days after developing the Flowering Disease, Connor spent so much time in the garden that he stopped having things to do there. The flowers were blossoming beautifully. The bushes were trimmed to perfection. The soil was fertilized. Connor had even installed an irrigation system to help water the plants even when Connor was not around. Hank's knees weren't what they used to be, so he couldn't bend and stretch to reach all of the plants.

When Connor died, he didn't want Hank to lose the garden and the butterflies. It was sentimental and emotional and not at all logical, but as long as something Connor worked on was still around it would be as if Connor himself were still around. And he didn't want to die.

…

…

The Mind Garden was becoming Connor's favorite place. There were no flowers peeking through his skin in the Mind Garden. It didn't hurt to move there.

'This is the third time you've contacted me in as many weeks. Usually it's the other way around. Are you okay?'

Markus and Connor were taking a walk through the expansive gardens today. The weather was perfect, as it always was. Luckily, Connor's mood had not ruined this garden the way it had the Zen Garden.

Instead of answering, Connor responded with another question. 'Could you check in on Hank from time to time?' He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at the scenery instead of at Markus while they walked. 'I know you're busy with the Jericho Party, but you were originally designed as a medical assistance android, correct? If he ever needs help, can I count on you?'

Markus nodded. 'Of course. But I don't understand. Hasn't Hank been doing very well lately? His nutrition levels have gotten a lot better since you started cooking for him. He doesn't take a lot of medicine nor have any illnesses. And you're there to take care of him any—'

Markus grabbed Connor by the arm to stop them walking.

When he had Connor's attention, he said, 'There's something wrong with you.'

Maybe it was because they were already inside of Connor's deepest self, as close to who he was as another being could get, but the information flowed from Connor into Markus almost before Connor was aware it was happening. It was…easy. Relieving. Someone else would know now. He wasn't alone.

Markus gasped and looked at Connor with sorrow and pity. Part of Connor wanted to hide from those eyes, but the rest of him wanted to drown in them. He was dying and someone cared.

'He doesn't know.' It was a statement, not a question, breathed into the air between them.

'No.'

Though he had already known, Connor's answer incited Markus. He grabbed Connor's other arm and squeezed, and his voice was tight when he spoke. 'How? The disease begins when feelings aren't returned. I've seen the way you two are. Doesn't he love you too?'

He had seen the same memories Connor did – of the conversation overheard at work and the phrase tossed out that night. He understood that it was a rejection, even one given tangentially. But Markus was more optimistic than Connor.

'There is a forty-eight percent chance he returns my feelings,' Connor informed him, his voice as dull as he could make it. 'Thirty-one percent chance he lets me down gently. Twenty-one percent chance he—' His voice cracked. '—He rejects my presence in his life completely.'

Markus shook his head. 'The odds of the Revolution succeeding began in the single digits. We took a terrible risk, but it paid off.' He sighed. 'Maybe you've miscalculated. Even if you haven't, that's a seventy-nine percent chance that he could…help you, during this hard time; that he would care for you until the end.'

The idea of Hank sitting with him as the end came made Connor's chest ache. He was dying and there was nothing to be done about it. Wouldn't it be better to have the one he loved be with him when it happened? He wouldn't have to be alone. He didn't want to be. But—

'The odds aren't high enough for me to risk losing him altogether.' Connor's voice was a whisper, and he was upset to hear how his growing despair had seeped into his tone.

Eyes narrowing and forehead wrinkling with pain, Markus pulled Connor into a hug. It was unexpected, and it took Connor two full seconds to hug back.

'I think you're wrong,' Markus whispered into his ear. 'If I hadn't been with Carl when he died…I don't know what I would have done. And he was glad I was with him.' He squeezed Connor tighter. A human might have difficulty breathing. 'Don't be alone, Connor. You are not alone.'

Tears leaked from Connor's eyes.

…

…

Two cases of battery against an android in one day and Hank was snapping at anyone who so much as looked at any of the android staff the wrong way. Seeing him defend the rights of androids still made Connor feel warm inside, though now it was tinged with sorrow at the knowledge that he soon would never see it again.

Fowler called Hank for a meeting – probably to tell him to stop scaring the other officers – and Connor finished up the paperwork from their morning cases.

"Robinson's such a fucking coat hanger," Hank grumbled as he approached their joined desks. "Crying to Fowler because I told him where he could stick it. Pah. And people said my generation was sensitive."

Connor inclined his head. "He does seem to…dish it out better than he takes it," he admitted. Like in the break room almost two weeks ago. Joel Robinson was only so bold and brash because no one challenged him.

The use of 'dish it out' by Connor had Hank huffing a laugh. Connor's lips curled up in pleasure, a small smile he only felt himself make around Hank.

All at once, the humor left Hank's face. He leaned over his desk to be closer to Connor. "You alright though?"

Connor tilted his head to the side. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The cases that morning had been hard to look at, sure, but it was no worse than any other battery case they had seen in the year and a half they had worked as partners for the AVU.

Hank waved a hand out uselessly, casting his gaze about like it would help him think. "I don't know. You've been…different. Lately."

"Different how?" Connor asked. He had been attempting to emote less in an attempt to staunch the Disease's progress. It hadn't had any noticeable effect.

A groan. "I don't know. The stuff for Sumo. You cleaned off your desk. You don't talk as much. You gave Fowler a fucking fruit basket the other day." He frowned as he focused on his desktop. "If you were human, I'd think you were preparing to commit suicide or something."

Connor's LED cycled red, then yellow. Suicide.

"I wouldn't." His voice was so rough and forceful that Hank jolted back in his chair and met his eyes again. "I wouldn't die that way, Hank."

Not while Hank was still around and needed him. Not ever. This life – being _alive_ – was too precious. He would never kill himself, unless it would save the lives of others. With CyberLife's back door into his programming gone, Connor wasn't worried about his systems being hacked, about hurting others. But that was the only time he would ever think of such an outcome. Nothing else would make him even consider it.

Not even dying from the Flowering Disease had made him consider killing himself. He had so little time left. He wouldn't give up a second of it.

"Alright, alright," Hank said, holding his hands up in a placating way. "Like I said: if you were human. You're fine."

Only when Connor's LED cycled blue once more did Hank lower his hands and breathe normally again.

…

…

Even an RT600 model Chloe would be embarrassed by Connor at that moment. His motions were jerky. Stiff. Slow. Six new blooms had sprouted after dinner and his joints no longer wanted to work. Though a diagnostic did not pick up a single petal, Connor could feel their roots shifting and growing under his chassis.

Hank had gone to bed two hours and thirteen minutes ago. The house was dark, quiet. The only sounds came from the road outside, Sumo's intermittent huffs, and the soft hum of the automatic vacuum as it made a circuit of the living room. Connor stood in the hall and cast his eyes about in the silence.

The jazz CDs piled up around the old style stereo. The couch with the flowers and crosses quilt hung over the back. The money tree in the pot by the door. The spider plant on the mantle. This was the room where he and Hank spent their evenings. They watched TV or movies sometimes, but usually they read books in the quiet, or Hank told Connor stories about growing up through the nineties and early two thousands.

The geometric half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen and dining room. The matching table and chair set Hank had let Connor convince him to buy a year ago. The fridge covered in receipts and magnets and photos of Cole and past partners Hank had had. There was now a list held up directly next to the handle by a magnet shaped like a Saint Bernard: the numbers for Hank's primary care doctor, his mentor Gerald, the local chapter of AA, the non-emergency line of the hospital, Markus, Josh, and Simon. All written in perfect CyberLife Sans font.

There was a stack of all bills at the top of the trash, still visible. Every one of them was set to autopay. Other than that trash, the house was clean. Every dish was put away. Every article of clothing was hung up or folded in a drawer. The tile floors were swept and mopped. There were groceries in the fridge, and Tupperware with meals for the next week.

If anyone had ever been fully prepared for death, and for life to continue after they were gone, it was Connor.

Inhaling deeply, Connor pushed off the wall and trudged back to his room. He was tired. Physically and emotionally, he was tired.

…

…

_Brrring_

_Brrring_

_Brrr—_

"Someone had best be dying," Hank cursed into the phone.

"_That's what I'm worried about, Lieutenant."_

"Who the fuck is this?"

"_My name is Markus Manfred."_

That had Hank awake in a blink. Why was the head of the Jericho Party – of the whole of the android movement – calling him? "Markus? Why are you calling me?"

Light was just peeking through his windows. Usually this time of day had him angry that he was awake so fucking early, though other people thought it was peaceful and full of potential. Something about that weak light had his nerves on edge.

"_Connor isn't answering my calls. I know he hasn't said anything to you, but he's sick, Lieutenant. Please check on him. For me, if nothing else."_

"For you?" Hank repeated even as he threw the covers off and headed for the hallway. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"_Let me know what you find out. Thank you, Lieutenant."_

The call disconnected. Hank scowled. "Damn people who don't have any phone manners."

Connor's door was closed. That wasn't unusual, but the phone call had Hank seeing it as a bad omen. His knock was weak. Heart in his throat, Hank turned the handle and opened the door.

…

…

"Connor!"

Standby mode shut down abruptly at Hank's worried call. Connor's eyes slipped open. Hank stood at the door, hand still on the knob, eyes wide. As Connor sat up, his expression calmed, then hardened. Following Hank's gaze, Connor saw a flower just peeking out of the top of his shirt. Then Hank stalked across the room in three steps, grabbed Connor's shirt, and ripped it up.

"H-Hank!"

Connor's worried cry didn't stop Hank from seeing the mess of flowers his chest had become. Hank went grey, then green. It looked like he might be sick. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and dropped Connor's shirt. "Fuck."

He was shaking. Maybe Markus was right. Maybe Connor would get the seventy-nine percent odds where Hank sympathized with him and stayed with him while he died.

"You didn't tell me," Hank murmured, eyes still shut.

"I'm sorry." Connor wanted to hug him, but the pressure on the flowers would be excruciating, and even standing up seemed like a lot of effort.

The apology had Hank's eyes flying open. He threw his arms wide. "What were you gonna do? Huh? Keep it a secret and just die one day? Connor, you said you wouldn't die like that!"

Connor's LED cycled yellow, spinning, spinning, spinning. Frowning, eyes pulling together in confusion, he said, "I said I wouldn't kill myself."

"It's the same thing, Connor!" Hank snapped. "Letting yourself die is the same thing!"

What was Connor meant to do though? The Jericho Party was doing everything they could to research the disease, but there was no cure. There was no treatment to extend the life of the infected. "There's no cure, Hank," Connor reminded him, not unkindly. Hank flinched. "I'll die whether I told you about it or not. I thought it was better not to…not to burden anyone else with it."

It was better not to burden Hank with it. Whether he cared about Connor or rejected him, the news would have been a burden. It _was_ one.

"This isn't any better!" Connor's LED flipped to red at the shout, the accusation. Hank ran his hands roughly over his face like he was attempting to wash a year's worth of dirt away. "What—," his voice caught in his throat. He cleared it. "God, what am I supposed to do when you're gone?"

Connor crossed his legs and put his hands in his lap. He stared at them as he said, "All of the bills are set to autopay. The garden's new irrigation system will keep the plants watered. They'll need pruning, but anyone can do that. There's a list of important numbers on the fridge. I've closed as many cases at work as I can, and my desk is ready for my replacement."

"Dammit, Connor, that's not—That's not what I fucking meant!" Hank bit out, lowering his hands so he could glare at Connor. His voice was choked but angry. "I don't give a shit about the bills or the department or the goddamn fucking garden!"

That got Connor to lift his eyes, his LED cycling down to yellow with his confusion. "I thought you liked the garden. The butterflies?" he prompted.

Hank sank to the foot of Connor's bed with a sigh so heavy it was like the world was on his shoulders. "The only reason I care about the garden is because it's something you enjoy doing. It's something you _chose_, without anyone giving you an order or telling you to like it. Dammit, I like it because it's _your_ garden." He rubbed his weathered hands across his eyes, which were turning red with unshed tears.

Seventy-nine percent won. Hank didn't hate him. Hank may not be crying, but Connor was.

"It's the same with the house. Hell, with the job." Hank shook his head. "I was ready to get fired at any moment, and I would've fucking deserved it too. Then you came along, and now I actually give a damn about my work again. You reminded me why I started being a cop in the first place."

Connor's chest was warm with good emotions. He liked being Hank's inspiration. He liked feeling like he was making a difference.

"And the house was just a fucking coffin I was waiting to die in until you started living here and made it feel like a home again, with your stupid dramas and bird food." Hank rubbed his eyes again, catching tears as fast as they fell.

Wait.

"Hank…You love me…don't you?" Connor's LED turned blue.

Across from him on the bed, Hank's face turned pink and splotchy with a flush. He looked away to the window. His voice was low and rough. "I do. Dammit, Connor, you know I do. You're everything I give a fuck about in my life."

"You're _in love_ with me," Connor pressed. His chest ached, but not in a bad way. He felt the roots shifting, like they were as anxious to hear Hank's reply as Connor was. A forty-eight percent chance. The odds were significantly higher now.

Hank closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "Yeah."

All the air in Connor left in one big rush. Error messages flashed briefly in his vision. The roots were doing strange, writhing things in his insides. Strangely, it didn't hurt at all.

Hank met his eyes. "Not that that matters now. You're dying, god dammit. You went and learned what love was and now it's fucking killing you." He motioned at Connor almost angrily. "It's killing _me_. It's—"

The words died on his lips, leaving his mouth hanging open. A shock of electricity went through Connor, right through his thirium drive. Without thinking, he clutched at his chest. Instinctively, he ripped his hand back – even though it hadn't hurt. Petals slipped out from beneath his shirt, withered and dry. A veritable rainbow of petals and leaves, one after the other. Then Connor's LED shot to red and he coughed, sending roots onto the sheets. Again. Again.

"Connor! Oh god, Connor!"

Hank's hands were on him, rubbing his back. It was comforting, as was the repetition of his name from Hank's lips. The retching continued for endless minutes. Connor could start a new garden with the detritus coming from his insides. And it hurt so badly that he began to weep once more, his false skin fading away to white plastic.

Finally, it stopped. The sun was shining brightly through his blinds. Hank was still rubbing his back.

Connor watched skin reappear across his hands, slowly, like it wasn't sure it was allowed there anymore. By the time he looked human again, his breathing had stabilized. The blinking red error messages faded away. His LED cycled back to blue. Cautiously, Connor reached up to touch his chest.

It didn't hurt.

He started to pull his shirt off and, after a moment, Hank helped. More petals joined the pile on the bed. They would need to wash the sheets. Pulling the shirt off didn't hurt, and when it was off, Connor stared in shock at his bare chest.

There were no flowers. There wasn't even a shred of evidence that they had ever existed.

Connor ran a diagnostic. No blockages were reported, no overheating systems, no error messages. But his diagnostic had been wrong before. He popped open the panel in his chest that housed his thirium drive. It was clear. Though it was dangerous, Connor even pulled his thirium drive clean out of his body – ignoring the alarm in his head – and looked it over.

No flowers. Not even a hint.

"Connor? Hey. Everything alright? Connor!" Hank called, gently slapping Connor on the cheek.

Connor popped his thirium drive back in, closed the panel, turned to Hank, and said, "I love you." He grinned. "I'm _in love_ with you."

Hank frowned, confused. "What?"

Connor shook his head. "I don't understand how, but the Flowering Disease is gone, Hank." He couldn't stop smiling. "I was dying because I thought you could never love me in return. But you do. And I love you."

For a moment, Hank smiled back. Then he frowned. "You're…You're sure about the Flowering Disease?" Connor nodded, but Hank did not look reassured. "No offense, but I don't believe it. No one's ever survived it before."

"We can go visit the Jericho Party scientists, if that will convince you," Connor suggested. "I'll get a full evaluation."

It made sense. Connor's own systems had not been able to recognize the Flowering Disease before, and no one had ever recovered from it before. Logically, he should be as worried as Hank. But somehow he wasn't. Somehow he just knew that he was okay. Hank loved him back.

Hank agreed that a full exam would make him feel better about the whole thing. Then, hesitantly, he reached out to place his hands on Connor's shoulders. There was a question in his eyes. Connor gave a fond smile in return and leaned forward to wrap Hank in a proper hug.

…

…

"Congratulations. You did it," Markus said.

Connor looked over from the exam table. It was similar to a hospital bed, except that none of the machines surrounding him were measuring heartbeats and blood oxygen levels. Hank was in a chair beside him.

There was awe in Markus's eyes and the curve of his lips. "You found a cure for the Flowering Disease."

Connor couldn't sit up since he was still attached to the machines, but he grinned like the cat that got the canary.

Hank frowned. "What was it? One minute he was covered in flowers, then suddenly he hacked everything up like so much bad sushi."

"Love," Markus told him with a smile.

"Love?" Hank repeated, disbelieving.

Markus shrugged. "It makes sense if you think about it. The Flowering Disease develops when an android falls in love but those feelings are rejected. Having that love returned then negates the original cause and kills the disease."

Having that love returned. Even twenty-four hours later, Connor could hardly believe it. He had told Hank what caused him to develop the Flowering Disease. Gaping and incredulous, Hank had denied being disgusted about android-human relations.

"_The only thing besides their piss poor attitudes that disgusted me during that conversation was the rank coffee. You're lucky you don't have to drink that shit,"_ he'd said.

So really, the entire thing had been a misunderstanding. Connor felt foolish now. All that worry and pain and emotional torment for nothing. Luckily, Markus had not said 'I told you so.' Yet.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Markus continued, "It's not a result all androids can expect, but at least if the information is out there, it might help some of them. If they are suffering from the illness, they have a chance for survival now." And it was his turn to grin at Connor and Hank, like he was in on the world's best joke. "They just have to be brave and admit their feelings to the person, or people, they love."

Hank flipped him off and Connor let out a huff of laughter. That made Hank reach over to take his hand. They were both gripping each other so tight that it should have hurt Hank, but neither complained. Connor had nearly died and it had given both of them a scare. Now they had to work to recover from it – not physically, as there was no sign of the disease left to recover from, but emotionally.

And they would do that, as they did everything from housework to case work – together.

...

...

_fin_


End file.
